


It doesn't get easier with time

by honeynoir (bracelets)



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-20
Updated: 2012-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-29 21:52:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bracelets/pseuds/honeynoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's known many Rivers now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It doesn't get easier with time

**Author's Note:**

> Written in July 2010 for the Bowties Are Cool! S5 ficathon. The prompt was 'Eleven/River, a game I won't lose'.

As usual, she lists short descriptions, names of things, of places, of people, trying to get them in sync. She enjoys guessing when they are, like it’s their private game. She wants the last word, and she wants to guess right.

She peeks up every now and then, scanning his face, staring into his eyes, trying to find something that will tell her what they’ve lived through and what they haven’t.

He’s learned from her. He does much the same, though entirely unwillingly and with heavy hearts. He catalogues her every time they meet because he’s afraid of when it’ll be time. He’s afraid it’s this body that gets a new suit and a haircut.

He’s known many Rivers now. Young ones and old(er) ones. Ones with long hair and short, ones with straight hair and curly, red or blonde or black (and once, blue). Ones in sky-high heels and ones in wellingtons. Ones in cocktail dresses and ones in jumpsuits.

“The Bone Meadows? Have we done those?”

He shakes his head. _Blonde-ish hair, quite short, curly. A good sign._

“Women Wept?”

 _How long does it take for the nasolabial fold to become that pronounced?_

“The Seven Castles?”

 _Her tan confuses him; it throws the skin pigments off balance._ Every time she pauses and looks hopefully at him, he shakes his head. He doesn’t even listen, just moves repetitively.

“Pangea?”

 _Has she worn that perfume before?_

“Mars? You’ll know what I mean if we’ve done it.”

 _Her eyes are too experienced; far too experienced. She’s so brilliant now._

He could know exactly how old she is now, of course, if he let himself (he’s a Time Lord after all), but there isn’t a power in the universe that could make him find out. He just wants to know if there’s a lot of time left, or a little, or if he should head for the wardrobe.

She snaps the journal close; it hardly makes any sound at all. Then she looks at him shrewdly, smiling. “Have we actually done anything at all?”

It’s a joke, he knows it, but still — there’s always, will always be, that first time he meets her. It’s in the back of his head, that knowledge, always, and he thinks she ought to see it in the back of his eyes every time she looks into them, but she can’t tell because she’s never seen them without it. She never will, except for that first/last time.

“You’re not listening,” she says. “We’ll try again later.”

She can run with him, any him, and confuse him, and tease him about it, and enjoy herself guessing what time stream they’ve crossed this time — it doesn’t matter, because he will always, always win (ironically, winning and losing are the same thing where he and River are concerned). The cards are dealt, and he holds the trump, forever.

She grabs him by a lapel and tugs, and somehow their lips are pressed together. It’s a perfectly calculated manoeuvre, as if she’s done it a thousand times before.

That fact lets him place her reasonably, painfully well.

She grins against his lips and he knows she can place him reasonably well too. She must think he’s so young.

He closes his eyes and swallows hard.

  


* * *


End file.
